


The First One Hundred

by mikkey_bones



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Anthropomorphism - Freefom, Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-02
Updated: 2011-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-20 01:37:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkey_bones/pseuds/mikkey_bones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two thousand years of France and England (Francis and Arthur), one step at a time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First One Hundred

**Author's Note:**

> For the what_the_fruk challenge cycle with the theme 'Time and Space.' The section headings (and titles) are taken from a wonderful poem called The First One Hundred, by Jerome Rothenberg. I took the liberty of a) not actually writing stories for all 100 and b) mixing up the order a little. But I kept the numbering. I also put extensive historical notes in most of my fics; for this one I decided to simply give the subject right below the section title.

**  
_1. Archipelago of the wandering dream._   
**

(birth)

There is no birth, no beginning, no unified narrative of creation. Gaul was _not_ and now he _is_. The sun is shining and he awakens blinking on the dewy grass.

Nearby, he can smell flowers. It is not strange that he already understands the concept of the seasons, life and death and rebirth.

Birds are singing in the blossoming trees and at night it does not get cold.  **  
 __**

**  
_18\. How small a thought it takes to fill the world._   
**

****(discovery)

Albion's favorite place is in a circle of thick oak trees, hidden from the rest of the wood. He walks barefoot on the mossy soil, feeling the dew wet his toes. He sleeps curled up under a bush with a blanket wrapped around him like a cloak.

When the druids arrive there are bonfires and singing, and the magic is so thick the air gets hard to breathe. The hair on the back of his neck tingles; he raises small arms to the circle of starry sky above.

When the druids are not there, the Folk will come. They sing him to sleep and tell him stories of faraway times - he doesn't know if they are from the past or the future. They comb his hair and give him flower garlands and tell him that one day, he will be great.

He doesn't know if he should believe them, but they are his first and only friends. **  
 __**

**  
_65\. She was not the first victim nor will she be the last._   
**

****(mothers)

Albion and Gaul share a mother. She is redheaded and beautiful, and flowers spring from her step. She will hold Gaul and sing him softly to sleep, but she will go to Albion and teach him her rituals and the ways of magic.

Gaul doesn't mind that he's not the favorite; Albion, to him, is a misty, enchanted island. He loves his mother and she loves him as much as he can.

That is, he doesn't mind until Celt leaves him for Albion and doesn't come back, never comes back, and he meets Albion in Rome's house to find that his mystical island is merely an uncivilized _boy_ , younger even than he, with bushy eyebrows and permanently messy hair.

For the rest of his life he is unable to understand why she liked his brother more. But even when they go to Albion and visit (and Gaul finds less of a mystical isle and more of an overgrown, hilly rock), she doesn't come back.

Even though he wasn't her favorite, Gaul still misses her. And Albion, to his disgust, barely remembers. **  
 __**

**  
_4\. A midnight forest._   
**

****(the gallic empire)

There is nothing between them and freedom but a stretch of forest, the old kind of forest with tall trees and dense undergrowth, and they run as though there will be no tomorrow and no chance of freedom ever again.

Perhaps they are right - or Gaul is right. Albion never quite believes what he says, even now as he grips his hand tightly and tries to keep up, shorter legs working twice as hard over the distance. His breath catches ragged in his throat and his heart in his mouth. This has been a long time coming and now, finally, they're free.

Are they free? A clearing opens up ahead - the dark of the forest gives way to a soft silver light from the full moon. Albion recognizes sacred oaks as Gaul practically throws himself to the ground, breathing hard and quite clearly exhausted from their long run.

Albion sinks to the moss as well, touching it with wondering fingers. He can feel the magic thrumming in this sacred place and thinks it strange that such a grove can exist so close to Rome. Have they even left Rome yet?

"Hispania will hold him off," Gaul said, and, owl-like, Albion swiveled his head to watch the other boy, whose pale face was gleaming with a sheen of sweat. "He _will_ ," Gaul insisted, taking Albion's silence for disbelief. "And we're... free."

Gaul's voice was disrupting the silence of the grove, so Albion didn't reply except to stand up and walk closer to him, sitting against his side. He feels Gaul's fingers in his hair until the moment he falls asleep.  **  
 __**

**  
_27\. A castle opens up._   
**

****(norman conquest of britain)

The best thing was to rise into power by one's own merit, one's own force; the best thing was to conquer and not be conquered. He barely remembered Gaul and the days of sunshine and slavery under the heel of the Roman Empire. He _did_ remember the right to rule and the God-given justice of his claim.

And now the nation that was once Albion was now opened to Gaul, who was now Normandy and France and many nations struggling to be one or be apart.

For himself, Francis knew God, and that was enough to hold him up and keep his sword steady as he pointed it at Arthur's throat.   
 __

 _Surrender_.  _Victory_. The words taste sweet on his tongue and he thinks he could indeed get used to this.

**  
_53\. A holy sacrament begins._   
**

(jeanne d’arc arrives)

She has dirt colored hair and dirt brown eyes but in his mind seems like something risen from the earth or fallen from the sky - something faintly miraculous in a certain small way that is nonetheless unmistakable.

She marches up to his king as though she is the ruler and he is the peasant, and there is nothing that wavers in her voice when she speaks of what she must do. Francis, at his king's side now, even though things are going poorly and he is weakened and losing faith, imagines his expression - eyes wide, surprised, taken aback.

Later, in Mass, he sneaks a glance at her as she kneels, hands clasped together and eyes cast down. Her pale brown hair falls down in front of her face and the sun through the stained glass windows highlights her in gold. There's something strange twisting in his stomach and Francis can only look a moment before turning back.

As they exit the church, a thought rings repeatedly in his head - _Angleterre will be unprepared for_ this.

Jeanne.   
 ** __**

**  
_83\. She has a stone to mark her grave her friend has none_   
**   
**.**

(the martyrdom of jeanne d’arc)

Francis's voice is hoarse from screaming. His throat is raw from crying. He hangs limply in his bonds as Arthur - _Angleterre_ \- England - turns to him and grins. But there's something sickening in his grin and something equally sickening in the clear blue sky.

"So now she's gone, _France_ ," he spits, disdain dripping from every syllable.

Francis has no more words left. He has shouted and sobbed and begged to no avail. And he watched his _Jeanne_ , his maid, his flower, burn alive at the stake. His draggled hair hangs into his face as he meets Arthur's gaze and _glares_.

"And now," Arthur says, his gaze holding steady even though Francis saw, he _saw_ him avert his eyes from the blaze, "she's going into the river." The ashes are in a box, a plain and slightly greasy box that makes Francis want to gag every time he looks at it.

And now the box is open. And now the ashes fall like nothing more than gray flakes of snow.   
"Maybe you can come to visit her," Arthur adds spitefully, dropping the box in too and turning on his heel. "If you get lonely."

And now Angleterre is gone too. Francis, for his part, is glad. And when they untie him and leave him on the shores of the Seine, he can listen to the water flowing by and pretend it is the voice of his beloved.   
 ** __**

**  
_78\. The way to rub out wine stains is to pour on salt._   
**

****(le camp du drap d’or)

They meet like fighting cats, their eyes spitting venom. Although their rulers are but human and have short memories, both England and France can remember long ago (and not so long ago) - the harsh words, the slights, the sneers, the pain of losses old and new.

But now they must behave, and so Francis finds himself seated stiff-backed and stiff-necked with Arthur at his side. He does his best to ignore the other nation during the course of the dinner. Arthur does the same. Conversation around them is stilted, tense. Conversation between them is nonexistent.

Halfway through the meal Arthur's hand slips - _deliberately_ , Francis thinks - and the cup of wine splashes into Francis's lap. Before he can think, Francis is on his feet, wine dripping down his doublet and hose, hand lashing out to grab at Arthur's throat.

His hand is knocked aside and Arthur stands too, stepping closer. His glare is unyielding. "It was an _accident_ , you bloody sod," he says, his voice low. They need to behave themselves, they need to behave themselves, Francis thinks, his jaw clenched shut tightly so as not to spill invective. But this way he can neither reply nor protest when Arthur adds, "Just go to your tent and clean up."

Francis's mind screams _retribution!_  He licks his lips. "I-" he begins, face red, almost shaking with the need to _hit_ Arthur, to attack him, to do _something_ to erase this utter humiliation...

"Git," Arthur snaps and grabs Francis's wrist, yanking him forward. "I'll come with you."   
 ** __**

**  
_2\. A castle with two bodies._   
**

(the first time)

It is not long after and the castle is too cold. The halls are drafty and that is the justification in Arthur's mind. He knows it is not a very good one. He imagines Francis has a similar reason for kissing him.

Arthur will of course tell himself he merely wants to get warm, as it is winter and this visit is already quite ridiculous, and that is why he grabs Francis's hand, squeezing the bones tight so they grind together, and why they end up in a small, deserted bedroom.

"This is where I'm staying," Francis pants. His blond hair is already in disarray.

Arthur's fingers scrabble at Francis's clothes, heedless of jewelry or satin or lace. Francis is reciprocating mercilessly. His tongue in Arthur's mouth is a strange sensation but not entirely unwelcome.

None of this (Arthur hates to admit and therefore refuses to think about) is entirely unpleasant even though Francis smells of wine and he thinks they've both, perhaps, drunk too much.

Later, though, they lie in bed, back to back, not touching each other. They stare at opposite walls and curl around their separate anxieties and do not speak for the shame of it.

Francis slips away sometime during the night and Arthur, in the morning, is left still cold.   
 ** __**

**  
_21\. It makes us look too small._   
**

(colonies and children)

The New World is a place of infinities - an infinite forest, with trees stretching up to touch the heavens. An infinite sky - sometimes blue, sometimes stormy and gray and terrifying. An infinite ocean - to separate it from the _Old_ World, the world from whence they came. And an infinite...

"Hope, it would seem?" Francis asks, staring out. He has a nation with him - _New France_ , whose wide violet eyes and wavy hair make him look even younger than he is.

Mathieu nods, and wraps small arms around Francis's neck.

Arthur sees it differently, miles and miles away in the log cabin that he built with his own hands (and it took _so_ long). His little one, Alfred, with bright blue eyes and a cheery, gap-toothed smile, is still asleep as he goes to stand in the doorway. He's not sure he likes the wilderness; the close and tall trees fill him with a sense of dread. For his part he thinks of an infinite responsibility in raising this child, and an infinite love.

He looks back to the small cot and the child. Alfred's eyes are blue, like the sky. The only other eyes to which he can compare them are Francis's, which are blue... like the ocean. Not the same shade, not at all.

It's easier to love Alfred when his eyes are closed.   
 ** __**

**  
_49\. They run the women down for pleasure._   
**

(louis xiv)

It's disgusting, Arthur thinks as he walks the over-decorated hall. It is a mark of the depths to which France has fallen, this palace. It is a monument to unbridled corruption. The wigs, the perfumes, the gold embroidered finery. And Francis is in the middle of it, a lady (different lady each time) always at his side. They simper together.

"And you dress like a lady too," he snaps. They have been at war almost constantly for the past fifty years. He's not about to be polite.

"This?" Francis asks, twirling the tightly coiled hair of his elaborate wig. "It is but the height of fashion, _mon cher_ , of course you would not understand. "Or this?" He smooths both hands down the blue velvet front of his coat. "Also quite fashionable. Are you perhaps," he gives Arthur a look that leaves it _no mystery_ what he is thinking, "jealous?" And his smirk - that _damned_ smirk.

Arthur feels his fists clench as he imagines Francis will all his pretty women - and _men_ , but mostly with his pretty _women_. He has to look away, but he keeps his sneer like armor. "Not at all."

Francis's raised eyebrow makes it clear he does not believe a word of it.   
 ** __**

**  
_68\. The beasts in the fountain cry with pain._   
**

(america’s revolution)

"You took him _away_ from me, you foul - _you_!" Arthur shouts, pounding at Francis's door. "You took him away from me, get out here, come back here!" He snarls wordlessly as he beats his fists against the decorated wood, wanting it to splinter under his hands and it _could_ ; he doesn't care who's looking.

There is no answer from beyond but Arthur knows Francis is _here_ \- and yet there is a cough behind him and he whirls around, hiding his fists behind his back, his face flushed with anguish and anger and Lord knows what else.

Francis is there, one hand bracing himself against the wall, and his eyes are dark hollows. He did not look this bad in the negotiations at Versailles. Perhaps, Arthur thinks vindictively, he powders his cheeks like a _lady_ , rouges his face and dyes his lips. Arthur would not be surprised. "What is it, _Angleterre_?" Francis asks and his voice is dull, cracking - yet he smiles and that is horrible in and of itself; a death's head grin that splits his face in two.

"I want -" Arthur begins but the words die in his throat. _I want restitution, I want you on your knees before me, I want you to acknowledge what_ you _did, what_ you _enabled, I want you to feel the pain I am feeling right now_.

It seems that Francis is already in pain. It almost makes Arthur hate him more, now that there is nothing he can do to Francis - now that Francis is not gloating, or cooing over Alfred, or _touching_ him...

His nails dig into the meat of his palms and leave red crescent marks that he will still see when he opens his fists, minutes (days? years?) later. "Oh," Arthur says, looking at Francis who is sick, Francis who is mad. "Oh," he repeats. "I hate you. I hate you _so_ much."  
 ** __**

**  
_35\. The soldiers of the revolution block every street._   
**

(france’s revolution)

Arthur hears about but never sees the riots in the streets. He never sees the gleaming blade of the guillotine and never hears the _thunk_ it makes when it severs muscle and bone. He never watches the way Francis grows thinner and thinner, or the way he gives up his regular manicures and his nails grow ragged and torn.

He is not there the day Francis stops rouging his cheeks, nor is he there when the king is executed and Francis _screams_ and clutches at his throat as though he is choking. He does not see the way Robespierre speaks to France, with a proprietary disrespect, nor the way Saint-Just talks to him _later_ , the angelic face hiding less-than-angelic intent.

Francis looks at them all as though they hold the palm of the world in their blood-spattered hands.   
 __

_Libert_   
_é_   
_,_   
_é_   
_galit_   
_é_   
_, fraternit_   
_é_   
_._

Arthur sees none of it, but he hears everything, and at his desk, his lips pressed together and his hands in fists as he directs war against this nation of the mad, he imagines it.

**  
_69\. December is the cruelest month._   
**

(the reign of terror)

There is hunger and fear and the winter seeps into his bones, especially here with the grime and the dirt floor. He does not know what he is doing here. He does not know what he is doing anymore at all.

If he looks up and strains to see, the sky through the barred window is a weak blue and there are thin clouds scudding across it. It appears to him as if in a dream or on the surface of a painting - there is a strange and lucid unreality about the entire thing.

His people are leaderless and starving. _He_ is leaderless and starving and he was there when they dragged Maximilien away and now he is _here_ as they - Maximilien and Louis (the angelic one) and the rest - are executed.

What can he do? Nothing besides curl here in the dust and the dry straw with his hands around his middle, pretending it does not hurt.

He coughs weakly and wishes for something more permanent than all of these slow deaths.   
 ** __**

**  
_66\. Napoleon standing on the altar of the world._   
**

(rise of napoleon)

Here is the man who will be France's salvation, this short, ungainly Corsican who rises through the ranks and seizes power as emperor. It causes more than a few raised eyebrows in England, this _Napoleon_ fellow, who does he think he is?

Arthur doesn't like him. Arthur doesn't like the way Francis looks at him, like he holds the world in the palm of his hand and all the stars are in his eyes. It reminds him unpleasantly of someone _else_ , another peasant (but Napoleon isn't really a peasant, is he? Merely a Corsican.) and that leads to dreams of fire.

It's ironic he dreams of fire because he fights on the water, which is his domain. The wind and the waves are on his side (or so he likes to believe after the sixteenth century and Spain's ill-fated armada) and his navy is the strongest in the world.

They win at Trafalgar, to no one's surprise but the French.   
 ** __**

**  
_89\. It is an accident of weather._   
**

(retreat from moscow)

They know they will die because the cold seeps into their bones and freezes them from the inside. It is not so much about pain as it is the desire to sleep, a tempting and deadly wish whispered into their ears by the susurrating sound of the breeze.

Wind sweeps over snow that covers bare, burnt ground. Harnesses and uniforms clink and jingle in the almost-silence. Are there still horses? Francis wonders. Or have they started eating the horses yet? A bizarre thought. He wonders whether horse meat tastes more like chicken or beef. Possibly venison - after all, horses, physiologically, are rather close to deer, are they not?

The cold has numbed his feet and hands. He is not faring so badly as some of the men; after all, he is a nation, and his faith in Napoleon and rage at Russia keeps him going, like a furnace somewhere in the center of his chest.

And he keeps marching. They all keep marching back, back to Paris. There is not a stick of wood for them to burn.

When he lies on the snow at night he dreams of fairytales with snow princesses and when he trips over icy corpses in the snow, sometimes they take on the faces of people he knows. Ivan - he gave that corpse an extra kick, using precious strength. Napoleon - he stopped for a moment, his heart in the throat, before he realized that such a thing _could not be_. And he moved on.

He sees Arthur a few miles later, or rather, sees a corpse wearing Arthur's face. It makes him stop, and stand, and then, the ice seeping into his heart, move along.

**  
_64\. We are all too human._   
**

(the congress of vienna)

" _Les rois règnent par moi, dit la Sagesse éternelle_ ," Francis murmurs to himself as he stands on a garden path, watching the hazy clouds drift across the pale morning sky.  _The reign of a king comes from me, says the Eternal Wisdom_. It's a funny phrase. Francis wonders when he stopped believing it.

There's a scuff on the path behind him and Francis whirls around just as Arthur says, snidely, "What, over Bonaparte so quickly? Mooning over your newest Louis?"

Francis snarls - it's an automatic reaction. Part of him is perversely pleased about the fading bruise on _Angleterre's_ cheekbone; the other part of him is reminded of his own wounds that are healing slowly, his bruises that never seem to fade. He rubs at a wrist distractedly. "Leave."

"You can't order me around," Arthur replies with a snicker. He has gotten too arrogant lately, Francis thinks; hopefully one day someone will take him down and take away his pride. If only that someone could have been Francis himself.

"Each time I see you," Francis says coolly, turning away (turning his back on his enemy) to watch the sky grow lighter as the morning progresses, "I am reminded of the beauty that was the Continental System. I would like nothing more than to wring your neck and see you writhe in pain. I wish to cut off your trade and watch your people starve. You would bow to me, _île_ ," he spits.

Arthur says nothing for a long time until Francis turns, almost worriedly (Arthur was sometimes unpredictable), to see him standing and staring at the sunrise, the rosy light of dawn spreading out and making his hair look like spun gold. The expression on his face is one of amused superiority, but his eyes are contemplative. "When did we stop believing in kings?" he asks, not looking at Francis.

Francis turns away. He was hoping for an argument; he was hoping for yelling and shouting and maybe a fight. He finds he can't be bothered, though. He is tired of kings.   
 ** __**

**  
_44\. They embraced at length._   
**

(l’entente cordiale)

"You," Arthur begins, breaking the silence that had gathered around them like rainclouds or a heavy fog. His teacup makes a small clinking noise as it is placed back on the saucer.

Francis's smile is wary and he watches Arthur very carefully over the top of his book - some nonsense novel he bought on a stand in the streets, poorly written and even more poorly orchestrated. " _Moi, Angleterre_?" he asks, his voice sweet like syrup on steel.

"I -" Arthur begins and then he stands suddenly, bumping the table and causing the china to clink. "Enough, Francis, _God_."

Stiffening slightly, Francis places his book down, leaving it open on the table. He lifts his chin to watch as Arthur came around towards him, keeping both of his hands flat on the table. " _Excusez-moi_?" he begins.

But then Arthur is behind him and wrapping his arms around him, and Francis relaxes with a faint shudder as Arthur's lips find the side of his neck. "So that is what you meant," he says with a laugh, more for the release of tension than anything else.

"Sodding idiot," Arthur said, his voice muffled. His hands begin to work on the topmost buttons of Francis's shirt. "You've been avoiding this, haven't you?"

Francis tries to turn around though, as he is sitting in a damnably uncomfortable wooden chair, it does not work quite as well as he would like. "I have no idea..."

"Stop it," Arthur says harshly and stands straight, letting go of Francis with the briefest brushes of fingers across his shoulders. His brow is furrowed and his lips are thin. "If you don't _want_ this, Francis -"

The chair falls to the ground with a clatter as Francis stands and kisses Arthur as hard as he can.  **  
 __**

**  
_8_   
**   
**  
_7\. The circle of their friends draws closer._   
**

(world war i)

"At least," Francis says, leaning back against the muddy wall of the trench. He is gaunt, gaunt with dark circles under his eyes and his hair hangs limp and dirty. It's growing too long, Arthur thinks and almost touches it, but resists. "At least Russia is on our side."

Arthur's laugh is soft and bitter, muffled by the ambient noise and the booming of artillery in the distance. "That doesn't count for much at the moment. And it's not as if he doesn't have his own troubles to look after."

"We all have our own troubles to look after," Francis replies with a half shrug. He lets his hand fall down, palm up, onto the ground between them; with the familiarity of long experience Arthur rests his own hand on top and laces their fingers together.

"How are you feeling?" Arthur asks, because Francis's hands are cold. Well. Arthur's hands are cold too but Francis's are clammy. "Do you still have that fever?"

When Francis turns his head to the side to look at him, his eyes are glazed and brighter than usual. Were Francis human - and were they not at war - Arthur would put him to bed immediately with a blanket, a cool compress, and some chamomile tea. "I have had worse, _Angleterre_ ; you of all people should know."

It's a pointless barb and they both know it, so Arthur doesn't even bother to respond. He sighs and fishes a cigarette from his breast pocket, lighting it and handing it over to Francis. "America will be here soon."

Francis takes a drag with a look of immeasurable relief. "He will not."

"You'll see." Above and around them the artillery resumed and Francis straightened his helmet and stood, shouldering his FM Chauchat, a smile tight at the corners of his lips.  **  
 __**

**  
_98\. Too tardy & too premature for god._   
**

(the treaty of versailles)

Humans make mistakes. Nations, too, make mistakes, but Francis is sure, now, that his actions are not a mistake. The losers need to be prevented from this wholesale destruction. Such a thing must never happen again.

"It ended too late; we could not finish soon enough," Francis says, thinking of the ruined fields and all the lives lost. A generation gone, a generation that could never return. He thinks of famine and mud and blood mixed with rain. "More than ever I think the world needs a savior."

Arthur gives him a strange look. It is justified; this is a strange subject. "You mean God? Jesus?" he asks, his large brows furrowed slightly.

Francis pauses. When he realizes he is thinking of Jeanne more than anything, there is a strange and guilty feeling in his chest. He has not thought of God as a savior since he was standing in front of Madame la Guillotine, thinking that perhaps it would be his turn soon. "Perhaps," he allows because he does not want to talk about Jeanne.

Arthur says nothing in reply; he can tell when Francis is lying. "It will not happen again," he says instead, and touches Francis's hair, like spun gold in the morning light.

When he laughs, Francis sounds bitter and weary and not amused at all. "I will make sure of it," he agrees. And he will.  **  
 __**

**  
_74\. Find me a place to hide and I will love you dearly dearly._   
**

(the german occupation)

Arthur would be annoyed at the three a.m. phone call if he hadn't been awake anyway and it hadn't been from Paris. Last words? A morbid thought. He thins his lips and takes the telephone from his exhausted attaché, answering with a curt, "Hello?" Who knows who it could be.

" _Aidez-moi, Angleterre_." A breathless voice, a choked voice, and Arthur feels his stomach churn, his breath shorten with panic. He shifts in his seat, drums his fingers against the desk as he overcomes the urge to jump up and do... something.

It takes him a moment to answer. The phone lines are staticky. Soon, perhaps, they will be cut. "Francis. Francis, what are you -"

"You know what is happening, _Angleterre_. If you could..." A sigh, a rush of static, and Arthur imagines Francis, running a hand through his hair, looking away, blocked again by his pride.

Arthur sighs as well. He does not like this. He could not imagine this happening again, so soon. (Some traitorous part of him points out that it is, really, all France's fault; that this could have been avoided if he hadn't been so... so...) "I cannot change what is going to happen," he said, steeling himself.

A choked noise from the other end of the line. Arthur clenches his fist. " _Angleterre_ -"

"But I am going to _fight_ ," Arthur adds, his voice firm, cutting off Francis's protest. "I am not going to _lie down_ and let the fucking Kraut take me. I'm an island and we will _fight_ in the trenches, we will fight in the skies and on beaches..." Belatedly he realizes he is standing and his chair has clattered to fall behind him on the floor. He takes a breath. "We'll fight for you."

"I am not weak," Francis says. Arthur can sense the steel underneath the words - Francis's own, unique brand of bravery. The underlying strength, the flexibility of the willow branch that can bend and bend but never breaks. "But..." And then the strength is gone and he is merely Francis, the unguarded Francis that Arthur has come to know. " _Merci, Angleterre_."

Arthur laughs, painfully, but laughs nonetheless. Strange to think Francis would tell him that, ever. "You're... welcome. It's the least I can do."

" _Angleterre,_ " Francis begins, " _je t'ai_ -"

And the line goes dead.   
 ** __**

**  
_14\. Letters dance into the infinite._   
**

(world war ii)

Francis's last letter speaks of petty and insincere things - the rising price of goods like coffee, the unavailability and poor quality of such necessities as cigarettes. How he has grown quite fond of the cheap and almost stale bread (certainly sarcasm, Arthur thinks).

And Arthur can also (or imagines he can also) read into the things that Francis is not saying: the fear for the future, the pain and degradation of the occupation. The reason that all he can talk about is the foolish vagaries of his own wants and fickle opinions.

And yet, although it is worthless even as wastepaper, the letter has been folded and opened and refolded and smoothed out so many times that the ink is beginning to fade. Arthur has kept it in his pockets, running from errand to errand; he has read it before sleeping and upon waking.

The signature - all fancy flourishes - is almost rubbed out. Arthur feels like a character from a cheap romance novel. He writes letters back and never sends them.  **  
 __**

**  
_57\. We watch it from a window in a bombed out town._   
**

(occupying berlin)

As a reunion, it is not much. They are battered and sore, wounded and exhausted. Francis has dark circles under his eyes, a new wariness in his gaze, and has grown much, much too thin. They are standing too close and Francis's fingers have not left Arthur's wrist for nearly an hour.

They speak in hushed voices, high in the skeleton of a building in Berlin, below them rubble and devastation, above them a thin, clear sky. Each knows what the other has been through. Each wishes the other to tell it all again, because hearing it from de Gaulle is not the same as hearing it from _Francis_. Hearing it from Churchill is not the same as hearing it from _Arthur_.

"The nightmares have mostly stopped," Francis confesses, "though I sleep in fear they will begin again." Is it weak, this confession? Arthur knows nations (and people) that would argue each way. He touches Francis's cheek lightly.

"I couldn't sleep at all during the Blitz," he replies quietly. Below them, the soldiers are picking through rubble. The civilians are all gone.

Francis turns and brushes his lips lightly across Arthur's cheek. "I do not think..." He pauses, shuts his eyes, opens them (transfixing Arthur with oceans of blue), and begins again. "I feel I have learned my lesson about revenge."

"Are we older?" Arthur asks with some dull sort of curiosity. He slides his hand around to the back of Francis's neck, pulling him closer - but gently, lest he aggravate some old wound.

" _Cher Angleterre_ ," Francis chuckles just before bending to kiss him. "We were always old."  
 ** __**

**  
_52\. In the cold air fingers burn and stretch._   
**

(the cold war)

Their breath makes a mingled cloud of condensed air that hangs in view for a moment and then disappears. Fingers locked in knitted gloves and scarves and worn sweaters - or perhaps that is just Arthur. Marks of tension on both their faces.

"There have been some times," Francis begins, breaking the frozen silence, "I have been seriously in doubt of the likelihood that we will continue to exist another year." It got particularly bad during the time of the Plague. And before that, when he was young and living in Rome's house. He sometimes thought of death in the years of the world wars, but never with such conviction. "Now I begin to measure existence by days and minutes. Breaths."

On a bench somewhere in London, sitting companionably, close but not too close. Arthur wishes for tea. He also wishes an end for this freezing tension that spreads from ocean to ocean. The Iron Curtain is colder than ice. "They'll get over that."

Francis's gaze is morbid. "You say that, _Angleterre_ , because you wish to believe it." He laces his fingers together in his lap, looks down. It's getting dark - the sun sets early in the winter. He has had experience with saying things he wants to believe.

Arthur looks at him, looks away, and turns back after several moments of silence. "Happy Christmas, Francis."

The answering smile is fleeting and slightly melancholy. " _Joyeux_ _Noël_ _, Angleterre_." **  
 __**

**  
_85\. I might have known it._   
**

(modern day, part one)

Some secrets lie beyond their comprehension - what is their purpose, why they are here. Some secrets lie locked inside, wrapped tightly in hope and fear and silence - what Francis dreams about at night. Some secrets are not secrets until they are discovered, whereupon they are buried again, put under lock and key.

Like how Arthur feels at this moment, lying here.

He's learned over and over again that nothing lasts, and the best things are the first to go. He lies warm in bed and sated, and runs his fingers lightly over Francis's back, tracing the marks of more than two thousand years.

Francis, for his part, is lying on his stomach, head pillowed on his arms and looking at Arthur with some expression in his eyes that isn't quite mirth, but is far from sadness. "If I may inquire again as to the purpose of your visit..." he begins.

Arthur never did say why he came. He doesn't particularly know himself - well, now he does, but that's a _secret_. "Drop it," he says.

"If you are practicing espionage in my nation, let me remind you that -"

"I am _not_ ," Arthur says and hates how defensive he sounds. Oh, as if Francis is going to believe him now. "For God's sake, ruin everything, why don't you?"

Francis raises an eyebrow and sits up, and for a moment Arthur is distracted by the movement of muscles and bone in his back and shoulders. He runs a hand through mussed blond hair. "If you were here on business, we have wasted more than half the day."

"You -" Arthur begins, completely exasperated - Francis is good at doing that to him. But not now. He sighs and shakes his head, reaching out to brush his fingers against Francis's face. "Let's go to dinner," he says. "Tonight."

Francis laughs. His face gentles and he laughs, and brings up a hand to touch Arthur's fingers. "I would like that," he says. "Very much."   
 ** __**

**  
_100\. It is eight a.m. in Paris._   
**

(modern day, part two)

Arthur wakes up early. Earlier than Francis, at any rate, but Arthur swears that Francis would sleep through the entire day were he given the opportunity. Francis, true to form, doesn't deny it. He spares a moment to look at Francis (so peaceful when he's a sleep and he's not _talking_ for once) before he exits the bedroom to indulge in his morning cup of tea.

It's not long after (to Arthur's surprise) when Francis stumbles out of the bedroom with a yawn. Wordless (Francis doesn't talk in the mornings before coffee, if he can help it), he pours himself a cup of coffee - Arthur, by habit, switched on the coffeemaker as he got up - and adds cream and sugar. He only takes his coffee black when cream is rationed or when he must stay awake for nights on end. Arthur knows this.

"Your plans for today, _mon cher_?" Francis asks when he has finished the first cup of coffee and is beginning to put together some sort of airy breakfast, perhaps a croissant or some pastry.

"Breakfast," Arthur says drily, turning a page in yesterday's edition of _Le Monde_ \- although he dislikes speaking French he can read it with the fluency of a native. "Since yours are nothing but air."

Francis laughs and interjects, "I can cook for you, you know!"

"And then..." Arthur stops to think for a few moments. He's not here for any business in particular; certainly, things need doing, but he is not going to be the one to do them. "Perhaps I'll spend the day with you."

" _Avec moi_?" It's hard to tell whether Francis (who only seems to grow better at dissembling) is surprised or only feigning it.

Arthur glares and coughs awkwardly, turning a page in the newspaper. "And we can go to all the bloody places you won't shut up about. The Louvre. Your Arc de Triomphe. Even your... sodding Eiffel Tower. And eat at a stupid café. Wherever." He holds the newspaper high over his face to hide his blush.

Francis is incredulous for some few moments - has he, perhaps, fallen asleep without realizing? Not yet consumed enough coffee? And then he laughs, and pushes down Arthur's newspaper (yesterday's news anyway, old news) to lean forward and kiss him on the lips. "I'd like that, _Angleterre_. I believe I would like that very much. And then you can admit that they are vastly superior to anything in your own paltry nation."

Instead of looking away, Arthur grins and laughs. "As _if_ , frog. More like I'll help you realize they're all vastly _in_ ferior."

Maybe Francis should scoff, maybe Arthur should be angry, but instead Francis kisses him again and Arthur kisses back.   
 ** __**

**  
_Fin_   
**   
**.**

(the end)


End file.
